October 31, 2006

You may have seen her,

Strolling down a country lane.

With a basket full of heather.

A complexion glowing with health

Toned by a life in the open weather.

From her ear lobes

Under raven hair

Glinted earrings made of gold

Handed down from her forbear.

Those mysterious brown eyes

Were a match to any film star.

She had no need for make up.

Or any nip or tuck.

Just buy a sprig of lucky heather,

With her prophecy of good luck.

Gordon McCallum, Bowburn

Bonfire Night

He's stuffed his face with straw

And twigs and sticks,

All ready for his plight

The bonfire is lit and burning bright.

TONIGHT IS GUY FAWKES NIGHT.

The kids are so excited

The rockets are being ignited.

Catherine wheels are spinning round

Leaving debris on the ground.

Barbecue is going well

Giving off a lovely smell.

Sausages and burgers

Jacket spuds galore,

Those that haven't had enough

Can just come back for more.

Now it's time for GUY FAWKES

To be hoisted way up high

And see the bonfire's fiery flames

Reaching to the sky.

Betty Watt, Durham

I like growing old because...

When you finish work

and when your children have left the nest

you have more time to yourself.

You have more time to pursue your hobbies,

you have a bigger social life,

you have more time for holidays and day trips...

you have more time to do the things you have always wanted to do

...oh, how good it is to be old.

M. Greenhalgh, Darlington

Swimathon

Four recycled teenagers went

To Spain for a week

To spend some time in the sunshine

Whilst they were at their peak.

They'd been swimming almost every day

At their local pool

When, alas, they couldn't cope with kids

On holiday from school.

They'd been asked to swim the relay

In a charity swimathon.

And so chuffed were they at being asked

They just hoped it wasn't a con.

They practised every day in Spain

Determined they'd do well.

And on coming back to England

Their verve you couldn't quell.

Dot likes swimming the backstroke

So she went first to go

Speeding through the water

Like human dynamo.

Valerie likes the breaststroke best

And boy did she do well,

Cutting through the water

Like a bat from hell.

Doris likes the butterfly and you

Should have seen her flutter

Swiftly up her allotted lane

Without as much as a stutter.

But the piece-de-resistance was Joyce's,

Her favourite stroke the crawl.

And she battled to keep the lead she's got

By giving it her all.

But she had a secret weapon

That's never been known to fail

In any fingertip finish

- a very long fingernail.

Joyce Crawford, Darlington

Grandson

Our Michael is a grandson

Of whom we can be proud.

To us he is so special

He stands out in a crowd.

He has so much love for everyone,

You can see it in his face.

To be loved in return is all he asks

Of all the human race.

Sometimes, we don't give enough

'Cos we are often much too busy,

But Michael doesn't understand.

He's just not old enough is he?

We sometimes scold him when he's bad

Then next day we are sorry.

And you would know we love you son

If you could see us worry.

Forgive us when we're angry son,

We are just getting old.

But we will always love you

Til the day we are both cold.

It won't be long before you're grown

And soon you will be a man.

But we will love you always

Your grandad and your gran.

Norman Turnbull,

Sherburn

Autumn

Autumn is here, once again

Short days and long nights.

September brings the usual wasps

And daddy longlegs in the house.

Silly little brainless creatures they are.

They must have blackouts,

Because in spite of windows and doors open

They can't find their way out.

We still have warm days

But chilly mornings and nights,

We remember the hot summer

With a sigh.

But who can ignore the colours of autumn?

When you walk on the carpets of leaves,

Brown, red, yellow, bronze.

A walk in the countryside

Must be a painter's paradise.

So, let us open our eyes

To the beauty that nature brings.

For in every new season

There's a different bird that sings.

Emma Thomas,

Darlington

Midsummer Dream

And we would wander where we'd please

Through Cornforth wood among green trees.

My dog and I some years ago,

In early morning's misty glow.

That July day in mood sublime

The rustic wooden steps we climbed

To face fast rising summer sun

And breathe clean air whilst having fun.

With sheep and crows above the wood

When old abandoned house still stood.

Through open door and window too

I peeped as in the gloom light grew.

To see what I could not believe

Midsummer's day, did it deceive?

The clothes they wore, not of our day

Not unlike some Shakespearean play

Performed 'til small clouds dimmed the sun,

For seconds and then they were gone.

I looked around only to find

My dog had left me far behind.

Albert Curle, Ferryhill

Courage

He stands alone

Resourceful and reliant

In a world of his own

Brave and defiant.

He faces his foe

His adversaries are violent,

They hunt in a pack

At the moment, they're silent

Afraid to attack.

He hides his fear with a brave face.

For the scent of fear

Could be his first mistake.

Into the darkness he stares,

Aware of the danger.

It's their lair, he is the stranger.

Seconds tick by,

It's his last chance.

He feels he's gunna die,

They're going to pounce.

In the darkness, he hears a laugh

Somebody says he's funny

And starts to clap.

He's earning his money.

He's funny at last.

N. L. Kellett, Crook

WISHES SIGH

Wishes gone,

The churchyard sighs.

Cobwebbed feeling as the bells chime - time.

Confetti blown in the wind

As moments pass on the worn grass.

The bells of the saint cry,

Sigh.

Resignation in wistful eyes,

tears, held back by lids.

Feeling will not give way, another time.

Tears heavy, wait to cry, as bells chime.

Alison Carr, Bishop Auckland

NEW ARRIVALS

There are big black wheelie things

all over the town.

Are they from space?

Have they just floated down?

Or have they popped out of the ground?

Like flourishing plants they seem to abound!

Or are they gifts from the council

awaiting us there?

For, on every street they seem to appear.

Perhaps they've come for the good

of us all.

To join the small ones and green ones so tall.

Collecting our rubbish, recycling papers, bottles and tins.

So are these black aliens

really just bins?

Elizabeth Tomlinson,Richmond

HALLOWE'EN

Darkness like velvet enfolds the night.

The moon and stars they shine no light.

Only the lanterns' brave little glow

Comes from the farm in the valley below.

Tall grasses bending to the breeze.

No bird astir in the old sighing trees.

Except for the cry of the nightwatchman owl,

Alert to the fox on her nightly prowl.

Taps the ivy her long weary fingers

Against the pane she sways and lingers.

Lazily moans the rusty church gate

Disturbs not them who now know their fate.

Dank mossy walls rising stark and steep

Into the night so dark and deep.

The bell booms out from the bat-ridden tower.

The eerie bewitching midnight hour.

Margaret Mechen,

Carrville, Durham